"It's a serious," said a boy with a voice like a nutmeg grater.
"Yuh boob!" exploded his companion. "He means a serial," he explained to Father McGowan.
"And," said Father McGowan, "you have come to me because you are temporarily embarrassed for funds?"
"Yep," said the nutmeg grater. "We're broke."
"An' it's that exciting! Every time they busts up an automobile an' wrecks a train—we'd pay yuh back,—an' him an' her in it, they——" broke in the other.
"You'd like a loan," said Father McGowan. "Well, well, here it is. What's the name of it?"
"'The Iron Claw,'" said the younger impressively. "It's grand. Them there shows learn yuh a lot too." His voice showed his great thirst for knowledge. Father McGowan smiled. He was urged to go along, with the assurance that they would also pay for that in the future, but he refused on the plea of work.
He went to the rectory door with them and let them out into the dismal snowfall, the first of the season. Half-hearted, damp, then he went back to his study, with a tender look in his eyes.
He was thinking of a small boy who had known no such pleasures—a small boy brought up by an always-old aunt, whose heart and soul were cut square, and without any dimples. He had been a very quiet small boy with a great hankering for nails and something to pound with.
He had gone through the pound period without pounding, and when he reached the dream time he knew that dreams to his unyielding old aunt would be as troublesome as nails, so he had kept silent.
Father McGowan's eyes still held the wistful look that had come into them at seventeen. He recalled all his naillessness as he saw two joyful theatregoers start off to see "The Iron Claw," but in thinking of it there was no regret—only a gratitude that from his denials had come a backyard full of junk and a paradise for many little boys who otherwise would have gone without their small-boy heaven.
"She was a good woman!" said Father McGowan; "a good woman!" He was thinking of the still old aunt who'd brought him up.
"Are you well, Father McGowan-dear?" asked Cecilia later in the afternoon when Father McGowan had settled before a fire in the Madden library.
"Oh, yes," answered Father McGowan. "Have a little cold, but I feel splendidly." Cecilia did not look impressed, and certainly Father McGowan's aspect was not convincing. His head was thrown back against the chair, and his breath came raspingly.
"A hot lemonade," said Cecilia rather to herself.
"Never!" said Father McGowan. "Never! Cecilia, you are a dear child. Don't irritate me. I hate lemonades. They make me think of money for the parish house, and they are bad enough cold."
"Hot toddy?" suggested Cecilia; her eyes twinkled.
"Ah—!" replied Father McGowan softly. Cecilia rang, spoke to a haughty person in buttons, and soon Father McGowan was sipping something warm which did not smell of lemons.
"How's the pain?" asked Father McGowan in a commonplace tone; he studied the glass he held.
"Oh," answered Cecilia, "it is the same, but I am braver. Iwillbe good, Father McGowan. I can't help lov—caring for him. I fixed my hair eight times the other day when I knew I'd see him, and used an eyebrow pencil Marjory left, but it wasn't becoming, and I washed it off. I can't help caring for him, although I know he's unworthy. I seem to have lost my handkerchief,—thank you." Father McGowan supplied a large square.
"You didn't use to cry much, did you, dear child?" he asked gently.
"No," answered Cecilia, "and I don't now except with you. You see, when I voice it it becomes so tragically real. It is fixed because I speak it to a human, while when I think of it it seems like a bad dream. It—it doesn't seem possible that I can care so much, while he doesn't."
The fat priest reached for Cecilia's hand. He lifted it and kissed it. Cecilia looked surprised.
"A token of immense respect and humble love, dear child," said Father McGowan. "Kisses," he continued, "Cecilia, tie to the man who humbly kisses your hand. There are two kinds, the kind who wants only your lips and the kind who humbly touches your hand and who longs to be absolved by whimpering out his shames against your throat. Lord, what an old fool I am!Whata subject for a priest to lecture on!"
Cecilia was silent, for she was thinking of Stuyvesant's kisses, which still burned her palm. They had held humbleness,—and hunger. She remembered how he had muttered that he "darn well wanted to get down on his knees, gosh! How hedidlove——" And then Mrs. Higgenmeyer had come along and called loudly of the night: "Purty night, ain't it?" and, worse, the chaperone of Boston had then appeared and said in her crisp, quick-cut way: "'Beautiful night of stars,' as our inimitable Mr. Browning said."
Then the man with the Vandyke beard from Philadelphia had passed. He had crossed forty times, had a valet, and complained of the coffee and service, therefore commanding every one's respect. "Stevenson," he had corrected in passing. "Horrid person!" said Miss Hutchinson, but to Cecilia there were no horrid persons, for the world was full of a tall, gruff man, and her heart was swollen from his hot kisses on her small palm. Her eyes must have told him something of this, for he muttered, "Dear!" with the impetuosity of a loosened champagne cork. "What say?" Miss Hutchinson had asked.
"Father McGowan," said Cecilia, "shall I ever be allowed to forget my inferiority to the most? It is always there, even when they ask me for money for their charities. They say, 'Mrs. Dash has subscribed.Youwill probablywantto.' By right of bricks, I purchase my admission. Shall I always feel this way?"
"Oh, no," answered Father McGowan. "When you get past thirty you forget how you feel—that is, if you're any good. After that you think of others, and theegois rubbed down by the world into its proper size."
"Iama pig!" said Cecilia.
"You're not!" disagreed Father McGowan. "No one could call you that——" He paused. "For a long time," he went on, "I've wanted to say something to you, because you are too near it to get a perspective. I want you to look around at the snobs who do not mix with those in trade, and then I want you to ask what grandpapa did. Probably he made pretzels or ran a laundry. Do not ask the immediate members of the family of this, for they may not like it, but ask somekindfriend. You and John, you people of stronger, fresher blood, are America. You are what comes in and puts bright eyes into depleted stock and takes out the hiccoughs. Don't apologise for your strength and the fact that papa's reservations for his first trip were made in the steerage."
"I don't," answered Cecilia. "I'm rather blatantly proud of it, although since boarding school I haven't bragged of it."
"In time you may even elevate your lorgnette and ask coldly, 'Whoisshe?'" suggested Father McGowan.
"Oh, no!" said Cecilia, "I'llneverdo that!"
"Your children probably will!" said Father McGowan, and then he said "Drat!" to his own stupid self.
"My children," said Cecilia, "are gentle, white ghosts, and they play and do only what I dream. They would never do that, I would send them from my arms first, and I do—love them. My arms would be empty. Am I going to be a sentimental old maid, Father McGowan-dear?"
Father McGowan said he thought not. Then he turned and again quite brazenly kissed Cecilia's small palm.
"Cecilia," he said, "to-day seems like the end of the world to me.... My soul is on wings. Dear child, I wish you could know what you have always been to me. But you do, don't you?"
"Yes, Father McGowan-dear," answered Cecilia. "I have known. I have always brought my worst hurts to you, and one does that only to one who loves."
"Well, well," said Father McGowan, unused to personal sentiment and awkward from it, "now we understand. How's John?"
"Wonderful," answered Cecilia. She smiled mischievously. "Almost a boy again," she added in explanation.
"Twombly responsible?" asked Father McGowan.
"Yes," she answered, "entirely. His ideals when transplanted are unusually good. However, they do not seem to take root in him."
"Well, well," said Father McGowan. He stretched in a tired way and said he must go. No, he couldn't stay for dinner, for he was to take the night turn at nursing a burned iron moulder. "Won't he be thirsty when he sniffs my lemonade?" said Father McGowan.
Cecilia rang; the lofty person appeared. "Just a minute," said Father McGowan. "I want one more word with you." The person faded.
"Cecilia," said Father McGowan, "there's a doctor to whom your father is playing God. I don't want to bother you about it, but to-day, coming here, I somehow felt as if I ought to." Father McGowan settled on the edge of a chair, and he told Cecilia the dry facts of the ruin of Doctor Van Dorn. "Try to make your father see that it's better not to tamper with the works," he ended; "to leave that to whoever or whatever is pushing the old ball around.... Well, good-bye, dear child. Oh, I can get out without the help of his Royal Buttons, thank you."
After he left Cecilia again settled in front of the fire to think of her new problem. Her brain eluded it with a maddening persistency. She thought of a new frock, the Girls' Club, a dance. Then again of the really horrible revelation, and the unexpected obstinacy of her father.
She looked up at a softly coloured painting above the mantel, which she'd had painted in Paris. It had been marvellously done, and especially since the only model had been a small tintype.
"Dearest," said Cecilia, "you would not want him punished, would you? And,—is there any punishment more cruel than life?"
The painting smiled down gently.
"Pink roses," it seemed to say. "There are always pink roses, but youth must hold them to see their beauty.... Seeing no loveliness in dreams denied, no heights in greatest depths...."
"Come in!" said John. "Please!" K. Stuyvesant hesitated. He wanted to, for just a glimpse of Cecilia was everything to him; but, she—she had not wanted to see him. "I am out a great deal," she said in that memorable 'phone message,—also, "I have quite forgotten the little episode of the boat." Those two sentences had made things cruelly plain.
"Come on," begged John, "you must be cold!"
K. Stuyvesant got out of his machine, and went with John into the long-waisted house.
"Fire in the library," said John; "wood, you know. Bully, aren't they?" John, ahead, stopped with his hand on the drapery which softened the broad doorway into the library. He put the other, silencingly, on K. Stuyvesant's arm. Cecilia sat in front of the fire. She held a framed picture in her hands, standing upright on her knees. Looking,—looking,—looking, she was. They stood there for what seemed to Stuyvesant many minutes. He felt himself grow hot, cold, then he longed to shake John,—again, hug him.
"Celie!" called John. With a crash the photograph slipped from her hands to the floor.
"Oh!" she cried breathlessly, "howyou frightened me!"
"Come in, Stuyv," said John, loudly. "Look what she's looking at!Yourpicture!" Stuyvesant didn't answer. He had set his teeth, and his chin was very square.
"How long were you there?" asked Cecilia.
"We just came in," said Stuyvesant, before John could answer.
"I just picked up your picture," said Cecilia. "John hadn't shown it to me. I'm sorry I was stupid and broke the glass."
She moved, and Stuyvesant's eyes followed her, a heartache too large for concealment showing in them.
"Whatcha go for?" asked John. "Stay and talk!"
"I really can't, dear," she answered. "I'm sorry." Then, nodding, she disappeared. In a moment they heard the sound of the piano. Some one who could feel, as well as play, was tinkling out "The Shepherd Boy."
"She does it for dad," said John, "because he likes it, but you ought to hear her play good music. She's a wonder; why, in school——"
John broke off, another thought interrupting: "Why didn't you let me jolly her about your picture?" he asked. "It was a great chance."
"She wouldn't like it," answered K. Stuyvesant miserably. "Please don't tell her we were watching her, will you, John?"
"Aw,—why not!"
"Please, John!" Stuyvesant's voice was earnest.
"Well, I won't," agreed John in a disappointed way. "But I do like to tease her! She's awfully cunning when she gets excited, and you can get a rise out of her every time."
After that they settled to play rum for a small stake. Stuyvesant was absent. Time and again John and the cards faded while he saw Cecilia sitting before an open fire,—soft in the firelight, gentle,—almost ready to smile on him. His picture? ... Probably scorning him,—but,—at least she'd thought of him for that little space. He looked toward the chair, and he saw her gently smile in his direction.
"Rum!" yelled John, much delighted. "That puts me out. Gee, you're in the clouds! You owe me forty-nine cents."
The rectory hall was quiet, although it was well filled with people—shabby, the most of them, and sitting uneasily upright in their chairs. Damp snow clung to the coat of one woman who had just entered, and the smell of dirty and wet clothing was in the air.
Now and again the steam pounded in a low radiator below a window. There was a great deal of sniffing, and a hacking cough from a woman who bragged of a "weak chest." At last an old man who had been fingering the brim of his hat spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Howishe?" he croaked. His thumb pointed over his shoulder toward the stairs.
"Ain't no better," responded the woman who coughed. "Shecome down a half hour ago an' sez 'He's the same.'" The woman coughed again, and afterward wiped her eyes.
"He gimme a pipe," said the old man, turning the hat in his hands. "It hez a real amber mouthpiece on. He sez, 'Here, Jake, you know a good pipe, now I don't. This here was gave to me, I want you should hev it,' he sez,—like that he sez——"
"I bet!" said a frightened looking little man, hitherto silent, "I bet he did! What he done fer me——!" The little man stopped, looked around, and cowered back in is chair, swallowed several times, then spoke in a high voice, evidently unnatural and the fruit of great effort. "I was in the penitentiary," he said, "an' when I come out no one would gimme a job. I was despert. I got my wife, an' her aunt, what's had a stroke, an' can't use her limbs no way. My wife took to coughin' an' couldn't work no more. Gawd, it was fierce! I was despert. I come to him. What he done fer me——! I sez 'What kin I do? I gotta feed them women. Hev I gotta steal again?' He sez no, an' he set me down an' gimme a meal. Talkin' to me while I et ... Gawd, I never kin fergit it.... That there meal was none of them cold potato hand-outs served up with a sneer. Human beings is awful rough with each other sometimes. When I got through I got up. I sez, 'I don't want no more. I guess I kin hunt my own job now, fer you've made me a man agin....' He sez, 'Well, well,' an' then he set me down, an' believe it or not, he gimme a ceegar! A fie' center too! Then he come with me to my old woman, and Aunt Ellen, an' he seen that they was did for, an' the next week he got me a job at the cement plant." After he finished he cowered again. The world had shown him little forgiveness. His world was scorn, or a hidden shame.
The little man had, in telling of Father McGowan's goodness, voiced his crucifixion. The pain of telling it made him feel as if he were at last thanking the big priest adequately.... He blinked, and avoided his companions' eyes now. He knew what to expect.
"I'm glad he helped yuh," said the old man, "but he would. There ain't nothing he wouldn't do fer nobody."
Common sorrow, like common joy, had drawn these people together. The love of the man upstairs had filled their souls, and left no room for littleness. The little man of the penitentiary was one of them, not an outcast.
He sat up straight again, still blinking. "Yer right," he said; "he's helped a lot of us to believe there is a Gawd ... an' something beside hell, livin' or dead."
"Yep," answered the woman with the cough. She drew a shawl close about her and moved near the clanking radiator. "Ain't it cold?" she said. "I'm used to settin' near the stove. I wisht she'd come. That there woman in white, I mean, the one what nurses him."
"I wish too," said a fat soul who surveyed every one with suspicion. "I gotta get home an' pack my man's dinner pail. Night work he does. It ain't so nice.Idon't get no company. All day long he snores, an' at night I set home, or go alone. We used to go to pictures every Monday regular as clockwork."
"He helped me buy a parlour organ," said a thin woman a little apart from the group. "I come to him, and I sez, 'I'd go hungry to get a organ, what I could pick out tunes on, an' mebbe learn to play "Home, Sweet Home" on.' He sez, 'Well, well!' (yuh know his way) an' then I told him how I'd wanted one, an' saved up, and then had to use that there money to bury pop (his insurance havin' ran out) an' he helped me. I got it. I kin play three measures a 'Home, Sweet Home,' real good, except fer being slow in the bass.... There ain't nothing like music fer company. I don't get lonely no more of evenings. I use to get that down, an' tired a settin' alone after work, that I'd hate to hear the six a'clock whistles. It ain't no joke, settin' in one room with the wall paper all off. I wonder how he is?" she ended in another voice. No one answered. The woman near the radiator coughed, then wiped her eyes. The old man twirled his hat.
A girl with a sullen look slunk in, and settled near the door. There was quiet. Once in a while a chair was moved, and grated on the floor. The radiator clanked. There was the staccato tap of heels in the upper hall, then on the stairs.
"Youask her," said one woman to another.
The old man spoke. "Mrs.," he said, "howishe?"
"There ain't no change," said Mrs. Fry, "and there ain't no sense to your settin' here."
"We'll be quiet," said the old man wistfully, "and we'd kinda like to. We all love him."
Mrs. Fry covered her face with her handkerchief. "Set if yuh want to," she said in what was, for her, a softened tone, "but there ain't a bit a sense to it." Then she turned and went down the hall, blowing her nose loudly.
"There's three doctors," said a girl just out of childhood, and yet from her place in life old looking.
"I know that," replied the thin woman. "It looks bad fer him, but hecan'tdie! There ain't another!"
"He won't die!" said the old man. "Fer them that knowed him, he'll always live."
In the kitchen Mrs. Fry was sobbing in the roller towel. She heard Father McGowan's voice come, as it had, in gasps. "Now,—now! Mrs. Fry——" echoed in her heart, "don't feel badly—I'm tired,—and—I'm ready to go—to sleep——" And then he had smiled.
"Mrs. Fry," came in a voice from the doorway, "yer wanted!" She looked up to see an old man with the tears running down his face and following the wrinkles in criss-cross paths of salty moisture.
The nurse stood in the hall. She alone was calm. "You'd better go now," she said quietly to the little group. Several of them sobbed loudly. The door opened suddenly. "Where's Father McGowan?" called a little boy. "I got a new kitty what I want to show him.Ain'the in?"
Cecilia was on her knees in the dark, by her bed.
"Father McGowan," she whispered, "oh, Father McGowan-dear, where are you?" He had not gone where childhood had had an Irish mother go. Growing had made the mystery—the vast uncertainty—the haunting question of the still, dark hours!
Cecilia lifted her face. Her eyes were dry. "Oh, God," she said aloud, "if you are, give us another life. There is no possible good-bye for little human hearts that love. Oh, God, let me see Father McGowan-dear again. Oh, let me! I will be good all my life, if I may meet him once again——"
She stopped, choked.
The mystery echoed.... "Father McGowan-dear," she whispered, "whereareyou? Dearest,wherehave you gone, and why?"
"He died," said Johnny, "of pneumonia. One of those quick cases, you know. Cecilia's frightfully broken up—you can see it—although she doesn't say anything."
"I'm sorry," said Stuyvesant.
"I never saw much in him," said John musingly, "but he had an awful hold on a lot of people."
"Your sister cared for him, didn't she?" asked Stuyvesant, then added bravely, "I think that assures his being unusual."
"Oh, I don't know," said John in a lazy way; "girls are queer,—sometimes sentimental. He was good to her when she was tiny. She always remembers things like that. I think she's kinda sentimental."
Stuyvesant looked peculiar and grunted.
"Saw Tommy Dixon down town to-day," said John. A sudden flush spread across Stuyvesant's face. His eyes were unpleasantly bitter. "Good sport," continued John.
"I disagree," said Stuyvesant loudly. "Don't like him, nor his rotten code." John looked on Stuyvesant speculatively. He reflected that, after all, Stuyv didn't know it all, and that if he wore a cassock he might have been taken for Father McGowan. His ideals were very similar.
"Can't train with a Sunday school class," said John. "Live while you're here, yuh know. Damned if I haven't been good lately!"
Stuyvesant was worried. Thus far his work had been easy, because of John's adoring following. But,—were John to follow Tommy Dixon with the same adoration,—then,—itwouldbe work! He thought, with an inward sneer, of the smallness of the boy's measures for life. He thought of his always following the new, and of his weak swaying, and then he thought of who had asked his help.
"Come to dinner with me, John," he said, while he made mental arrangement for the cancelling of another engagement.
"Don't mind," answered the old John, in his old tired-of-life manner. "Got a date before dinner. Where'll I meet you?" Stuyvesant named a club, and they parted. Stuyvesant went to his office. There were several matters awaiting his attention, but he pushed them aside. Across the room he saw Tommy Dixon's insolent face. On it was the ever-present smile, that which shaded into a leer too easily.... "She says she can't forget his kisses," came with a touch of flame across his tortured brain.
"God!" said K. Stuyvesant. "God!" He hid his eyes with his hands. His breath came fast.
It was half after eight, and John was to have met him at eight. Stuyvesant looked at his watch, and frowned. The day had been hard, and had left small capacity for patience.... The mention of Tommy Dixon had brought back a misery he'd hoped somewhat dulled (one remembered by a stern control of thought, usually not more than once a day).
Now John, after Stuyvesant's breaking an engagement,—was late. His casual acceptance of Stuyvesant's hospitality brought a smile to that gentleman's lips. He wondered if John thought he courted the opportunity of hearing his rather young, and too often callow, opinions stated with absolute assurance as truths?
At nine Stuyvesant shut his watch with a snap, and went out alone to dinner. He was entirely out of humour. He allowed himself to meditate largely on Tommy Dixon. It was torture—exactly fitted his mood, and helped.
"Celie," said Jeremiah.
Celie stopped playing the chimes of a new "piece" of Jeremiah's pattern.
"Celie," he went on, "I done that you asked."
"Doctor Van Dorn?" she asked in a whisper.
"Yes," answered Jeremiah. He blew his nose loudly. "Heasked me, an' he asked me," Jeremiah explained, "an' I was that uppish! Jeremiah,' he'd say, 'don't try to cast yourself for God. It won't work,' an' I'd say, 'Is it going to rain, Father McGowan?' Just the last time he come I seen him in the hall, an' he was pleadin' with me; he sez, 'You can control his work. See that he does no harm, but don't do more,' an' I sez, 'It's snowin' now, ain't it?' Oh, dear Lordy! Ain't life one mess of regrets! One after the other, spoilin' your digestion, an' makin' yuh kick around of nights! ... I loved him too."
"Dear," said Cecilia, "he knew that!"
"Yuh think so, Celie?" asked Jeremiah wistfully. "Oh, yes!" she answered. Her answer held an applied genuineness. It convinced Jeremiah.
"I give him back his rotten little factory (I was losin' money on it, anyway), and I wrote him a letter. I sez, 'Dear Sir——' An' I went on telling him Father McGowan an' Gawd done it, not me. I sez I was his well-wisher now, wishin' him all success, an' I sez not to get funny in the hospital business on sick kids no more or I'd have him jailed. The letter was friendly and Christian, all owing to Father McGowan, who doesn't know it—God rest his soul!"
Cecilia was smiling tremulously. "You absolute darling!" she said. She perched on the arm of his chair, and they sat in silence.
"After all," she said, "hurting this little man wouldn't bring mamma her pink roses, would it, dear?"
Jeremiah's eyes snapped. In them was the look that certain competitors, who scorned him socially, dreaded. "It brung me mine," he stated; "it brung me mine!" Cecilia laughed. A sudden lightness of spirit, like the flash of day into dawn, was hers.
"Dear," she said, "I believe Father McGowan knows! I believe he does!" Jeremiah kissed her and smoothed her golden hair with his hand which would never become smooth. "You're like your maw," he said. It was his greatest tribute. Cecilia clung to him with a pathetic hunger.
"Miss Cecilia, the telephone," said the pompous person from the doorway.
"Yes, sir; yes, sir," answered Jeremiah, "she's a-coming." Cecilia went to an adjoining room. After her "yes" things swayed a bit. She did not need his voice, which said, "This is Stuyvesant Twombly." She knew. "Yes," she repeated.
"Ihaveto bother you," he said. "I've just had a message from John. He's been a little hurt—just a little, Miss Cecilia, and he wants you to come with me to where he is. He's a little hurt. You won't worry? I'll stop for you in a moment, that is, if you'll come?"
"Oh, of course!" she answered; "but you're sure he's not really hurt?"
"Yes," he answered. "Do up well. It's cold." She hung up the receiver, and stood a minute, hand over her thudding heart. She was not thinking of John.
As for Stuyvesant, he hung up the receiver and swore loudly. He was thinking of the 'phone message which had come from John, and of John's small sister. "Stuyv," he had heard John say, "I'm up here at the Eagles' View House. I had a bust-up. Get Celie and come. I'm dying——" There had been a lull. "He's fainted," had come across the wires in another tone. Stuyvesant's first amusement over the last 'phone message faded suddenly. Perhaps John had made the supreme effort and had managed to speak those few words? Then he abandoned speculation and telephoned Cecilia. He had assured her that John was not much hurt.... The gentle care of her was instinctive. If John were right the other would come later.
With a doctor in the car they drew up before the Madden House. The chauffeur was not off his seat before Stuyvesant was out and on the steps. "Are you warmly enough dressed?" he asked of her.
"Yes, thank you. John?" she questioned.
"He telephoned me that he had a smash-up and that he wanted you. I have a doctor; he may have some sprains or bruises," said Stuyvesant.
"It's so good of you," she responded. All of Marjory's hints had gone. She felt his hand on her arm and felt from it a sweet sickness.
"Miss Cecilia, may I introduce Doctor Holt? Miss Madden——" After that she settled, and felt rugs being wrapped around her. Stuyvesant's hands lingered. They held a thrilling tenderness. "Are they well around you?" he asked. Cecilia said they were, and Stuyvesant drew a long breath. The doctor looked from one to the other speculatively. He judged them lovers and himself in the way. The girl was certainly entirely lovely—the soft type who asked for gentleness in return for unbounded love. The way she looked at young Twombly as he stared straight ahead was rather beautiful, thought the doctor. She jumped as he spoke. "These gay young men and their speeding," he had said.
"Oh, yes," said Cecilia, "aren't they fearful? I think they should be reared without silly sisters to worry over them!"
The doctor agreed. He imagined young Madden to be a hard-muscled fellow who liked sport. In speaking of speed, his only thought had been mileage.
The car had left the city and was running with difficulty over a road which was bad from a light snow.
"Miss Madden is skidding quite a bit (pardon me, Miss Madden) alone on that back seat. You'd better get back there, Mr. Twombly," said the doctor. He smiled. He thought he had done something very kind, and done it neatly. Mr. Twombly stuttered something that sounded like, "I'm glad; I'd be glad—pleased——" Cecilia stared agonizedly ahead. The car made a turn, and, alone on the broad seat, she swayed, slid half across the seat, bumped.
Stuyvesant turned his chair. "May I, Miss Cecilia, or the doctor? We're going so fast. You'll be so jolted." In answer she turned back the rug, and Stuyvesant settled by her. After that there was quiet. Cecilia looked ahead, through steamed glass, at the ears of Stuyvesant's chauffeur. Stuyvesant sneakingly looked at her.
"Only ten," said the doctor; "we're making good time."
"Pardon?" said Stuyvesant, and at the same time from Cecilia, "Excuse me. I didn't hear." Under cover of the dark the doctor smiled. Cecilia flushed, and Stuyvesant bit his lip. He clasped his hands together very tightly, for he was afraid that if she looked toward him he would put his arms around her and draw her close.
The doctor began to criticise the administration, as people always do when they know little of the facts. Stuyvesant clutched the straw, and argued hotly first on one side, and then the other. The doctor was pleased, for K. Stuyvesant was illustrating a pet theory of his, universal insanity. "Now if Van Dorn could hear this!" he reflected. "Why, the man could be locked up! He's much worse than millions in asylums!"
The car jolted, and turned. Cecilia swayed, and bumped against Stuyvesant's arm. It slipped back of her protectingly, and closed around her. "That was a jolt—" he said shortly, "these roads,—did it jar you?"
"No," answered Cecilia, "thank you." His arm had been pulled away with a jerk. Cecilia stared ahead at the chauffeur's ears. They were large and floppy, and the whole world seemed like them, a misfit. She felt chilled, alone, afraid. She wished the car would jolt again. She wished so brazenly. She didn't care,—she did!
At the Eagles' View Cecilia was ushered up creaking stairs to a cheap, little room. It was shabby, and hung with soiled cretonnes. There were pictures on the walls, entitled "The Bathers,"—"Playful Kittens,"—"A Surprise!" Some more lurid with titles impossible. Stuyvesant had followed Cecilia and from the doorway, over her head, he caught the impression. He had expected it, but it hurt cruelly. His spirit was a mixture of longing to press her face against his shoulder, and a great hankering to kick John.
"I'm dying!" gasped John.
"My dearest!" said Cecilia, and caught her breath sharply, then she slipped to her knees by the bed. She put her arm beneath his head, which was too low, and turned to Stuyvesant. "Where is the doctor?" she asked. At that moment he appeared in the doorway. "Well, young man," he, said, "speeding?"
"I'm going to die," answered John in gasps. Cecilia had grown very white.
"Nonsense!" said the doctor. "Now if you people will just leave us for a few moments——" He began to open his case as he spoke.
"Want me?" asked Stuyvesant.
"No," he was answered; "you take care of Miss Madden." The door opened and a girl appeared. Her hair was streaked from bleach, and dark at the roots; her expression insolently daring.
"How yuh feel, honey boy?" she asked of John. John turned away his face. He looked sicker.
"One of your friends?" questioned Cecilia. John did not answer. "Yes," replied the girl. "I'm Miss LeMain. Me and John have been pals for this long while."
"I'm John's sister," said Cecilia, and held out her hand. Miss LeMain took it with a limp and high gesture cultivated as "elegant." "Pleased to meet yuh," she murmured, and then, "I'm glad you've came. My nerves is that shook up! Mebbe the gent'man would get us something to drink. My nerves is all shook. I feel fierce."
They descended the rickety stairs, the girls followed by Stuyvesant. If John had been well something would have happened to him. As it was Stuyvesant was fiercely protective of the small sister in a curt, silent way. His anger was almost overpowering.... He thought of Cecilia on her knees in that evil room. He thought of her gentle treatment of Miss LeMain.... He was humbled by her sweetness, and furious from its cause.
"Is he your gent'man friend?" asked Miss LeMain while Stuyvesant ordered the drink. Cecilia shook her head.
"Thought he was. Seems like a cute fellah. Gawd, my nerves is shook! Jacky speeds so! I sez, 'Jack, you'll do this trick once too often!' an' he sez, 'I'm running this boat, girlie,' an' I sez some more, an' then he kissed me; yuh know what a kidder he is! An' the car a-running like that! Then the next thing she was over, an' I was in a field. Jack was somewhere in the road. This ain't thefirstaccident I been in. I believe in a short life an' a merry one. All my gent'men friends has cars. No Fords neither. I hope Jacky ain't suffering. He's a sweet boy, an' some sport!" Cecilia's hands were locked tightly together in her lap. Her eyes were tragic. "My nerves is shook up fierce!" echoed Miss LeMain.
"I'm sorry," said Cecilia.
Stuyvesant had appeared in time to hear the last of the recital. "You'd better go lie down," he said decidedly. "It will do you good, and Miss Madden needs quiet."
"An' 'two's company, three's a crowd!' ain't that it?" questioned Miss LeMain with a giggle. Her sally was not greeted with enthusiasm. She left, terming Stuyvesant a grouch, and Cecilia sweet, but lacking pep.
Alone, Stuyvesant stood looking down at Cecilia. His arm was on the mantel. The shadows and lights from an open fireplace played on them. The rest of the room in half dark brought them close. Constraint was impossible because of the situation and Cecilia's dependence on Stuyvesant.
"The money came too quickly," she said meeting his eyes. "John has to spend it in the way that makes the most noise. I—I am so tired of it! So bruised by it! I wish we were back in that little flat, with John laying bricks as my father did. Perhaps then he would be a good man. That is everything to me."
"He is going to be a good man, Cecilia," said Stuyvesant. Neither noticed the use of her first name. "He will be a good man. This is a relapse,—a recurrence of growing pains. There are good things in him. When he's awake he has a sense of humour. That is a darn good thing to have, you know. I think, next to God, it's the best thing a man can own."
Cecilia pressed her handkerchief against her lips. "You will help him again?" she whispered.
"I will," said Stuyvesant. He put out his hand in pledge and hers was swallowed in his huge grasp. At the touch of her hand he gasped, "Cecilia!" but she did not answer, for the doctor's step was heard on the rickety stairs.
"Two broken ribs," he said; "scratch on his arm. Now we'll take him home. He'll probably yell over the bumps, but I judge the yells will do him good. Where's his companion? Send another car for her, or take her along?"
"Send for her," said Stuyvesant.
"No," disagreed Cecilia, "if you don't mind, we'll take her. I think it would be better." Stuyvesant looked annoyed, but sent the oily proprietor to call the lady of the shook-up-nerves. She descended immediately, wrapped in a large fur coat, and with a cerise motor scarf about her head. "I couldn't get no rest," she called; "I'm all fussy. How's Jacky darling?"
"Sheisn't going with us?" said John at the top of the stairs. He stopped and leaned heavily on Stuyvesant. "My God!" he exploded. "Stuyv, shecan't! Celie can't meet her! She can't! Tell her we'll send a car. I don't want Celie to see her."
"They've been talking for half an hour," said Stuyvesant. "Your sister insists on taking her in."
"Oh, Lord!" said John. "Oh, Lord!"
"Come along!" said Stuyvesant roughly.
"I really thought I was dying," said John in a shamed way.
"Shut up!" ordered Stuyvesant. "You make me sick!" They went down with no more conversation.
"How are you, dear?" asked Cecilia.
"Oh, Celie!" said John. He reached for her hand and clung to it. "Oh, Celie!" he echoed.
Until dawn Stuyvesant relived the night. The ride home had made the deepest impression. A girl with a painted soul and face had chattered loudly, and with a cheap sentiment reeking in her talk. She had spoken often of "Jacky darling."
While Jacky darling, from shame and pain, had groaned in deep, shaky groans, his head had lain on his sister's shoulder. On the other side Stuyvesant had sat. The doctor had disposed of the case as typical, and was thinking of an article which he'd just read in theMedical Journal.
"Dearie," Fanchette LeMain had said, "your fur's open." She had reached toward Cecilia's throat, but Stuyvesant reached first. He fastened the clasp with shaking hands, and the back of one hand touched her chin. Then he had sunk back to dream his impossible dreams, and wonder why she should have cared. He knew he was a duffer! But he was almost sure that she once had cared,—for him.
"Celie," said John, "honestly he was devilish to me, and I deserved it!" John was lying on a lounge, covered and looking wan. The library fire burned cheerfully, and the portrait of an Irish mother smiled down on Cecilia and John.
Stuyvesant Twombly had just left. He had uttered some scathing truths.
"He said I was a 'callow pup,'" said John. "He said I shouldn't have called you to that place if I'd been half dead. Cecilia dear, he was right. Celie, forgive me!"
"Dearest!" said Cecilia. She sank to her knees by the lounge, and pressed John's face to hers. He felt her tears.
"I never will again!" he said huskily. "God help me!" She didn't reply. She couldn't, but only pressed him closer.
"I can't bear to see you take the tawdry and cheap," she whispered at length, "for, John dear, it does crowd out the real. I know it does."
He nodded.
"Kiss me," he ordered. She turned her face, and then the door opened.
"I beg pardon," said Stuyvesant uncomfortably, "I thought you were alone." Cecilia had gotten to her feet, and stood, shy and flushing adorably.
"Cecilia's been weeping over the prodigal pup," explained John. "I told her I was sorry. I am. If you and she will give me another chance——" He held out his hand with his words, and Stuyvesant took it.
"I came back to say I was sorry I was so darn brutal," he said, squeezing John's hand, "but I'm afraid I meant it all."
Cecilia left them with a word or two. At the door she turned. Stuyvesant was looking after her, oblivious to John's presence.
"Celie's tears," said John, using a handkerchief on his cheeks. He recalled the new leaf, and added, "Three or four of mine too, I guess." His expression was sheepish, but that vanished, for in Stuyvesant's face was approval. "John," said Stuyvesant, "you'reallright!"
John coughed. The genuine gruffness of Stuyvesant unsettled him. "I'm awfully glad you came back," said John. "You'll stay? Let's play rum."
"What areyoudoing here?" Stuyvesant asked of Annette. Considerable surprise was in his face and voice.
"Oh," answered Annette, "I have been telling Cecilia Madden that I was a pig. I asked her to forgive me. I feel much better!"
They had met on the long drive that ran on the inland side of the Sound house, toward the main road.
"I'm stopping at a house up the road for Sunday," explained Annette. "Cecilia wanted to motor me back, but I needed air. Indigestion and conscience are so much alike. You want to breathe deeply after the easing of both."
"Yes," agreed K. Stuyvesant absently. "How could you ever dislike her, Annette?"
"She came into school," said Annette, "the rawest little person you ever saw. I felt the injustice of her having money, while I, who knew so well how to use it, had to scrimp and save. I saw her with everything in the world that would have put me into heaven and she was miserably unhappy. It was my first taste of injustice. I hated it. I never was a resigned person, you know, Stuyv."
"How did the girls treat her?" asked Stuyvesant. He was becoming gruff.
"We put her through a refined form of hell," answered Annette, "the cruelties of which were only possible for the feminine mind to evolve. Stuyv,dolook what you're doing! The gardener will be grateful to you!"
Stuyvesant had been switching a cane viciously. He had taken off many heads of a particularly dressed-up variety of tulip.
"I'll be darned!" he said, looking at them with surprise. "Couldn't you see how dear and all that kind of thing she was?" he queried farther. "I don't see how even a set of simpering, half-witted, idiotic, jealous girls couldhelpseeing——"
"So you're in love with her?" interrupted Annette.
Stuyvesant looked on his cousin with surprise. Then he answered. "Of course," he said, "but how'd you know?"
Annette laughed. After her laughter she slipped a hand through his arm. "Stuyvesant," she said, "your soul and mine are cut from a different pattern. It was always hard for me to understand you, but something has happened lately which has made me larger, much decenter. Stuyvesant, I want a long talk—a heart-to-heart effect. Will you walk back with me?"
"Of course," he answered.
"You'll be glad to know," she went on, "that after Cecilia had pneumonia she was quite the idol of the school. There was one of those complete shifts so characteristic of our American youth, and every one liked her but me. She used to try to make me like her with the most transparent little appeals. Heavens, I was a devil! She sent me violets at one time when I had a cold, and I gave them to the maid, and then spoke loudly before her of unwelcome attentions and social climbers."
Stuyvesant was walking in jerks. His arm beneath Annette's was rigid.
"She's forgiven me," said Annette, smiling.
He relaxed. "I am a darn fool!" he said, "but honestly——!" He stopped and shook his head.
"Doesn't she care for you?" asked Annette; "turned you down?"
"I haven't asked her. She's shown very plainly what she thinks of me."
"Rubbish!" said Annette shortly. "No man in love is a judge of anything! He only knows that she has blue eyes, or he can't just remember, maybe they're brown, but anyway they're beautiful!" Annette's cousin grinned sheepishly.
"What colour are they?" asked Annette.
"I don't know, but I guess they're brown. I know they're unusual, now aren't they, Annette?"
Annette giggled. "Very ordinary," she answered, "and they happen to be blue."
"They're not ordinary. You know they aren't! It doesn't make any difference to me, of course. I'm not in love with her looks, but they'renotordinary!"
"It is not like you," said the girl, "to give up anything you want in that half-hearted way. I don't quite understand, Stuyvesant."
"I——" he began, then stopped.
"Well?" questioned Annette.
"I didn't give it up without being sure. Her friend Marjory, well, she made me see a few things." He was staring moodily ahead. A car whizzed by, leaving a trail of dust. "Damn!" said Stuyvesant. Annette laughed. "You see now if I asked her," he continued, "I'd lose my chance of seeing her. I don't suppose you or any one else could know what that means to me!"
"You might not lose it. I don't trust the green-eyed lady. I never have."
"But she's Cecilia's best friend," objected Stuyvesant, "and why would she do anything to hurt her?"
"I used to think you posed," she answered despairingly. "Now I imagine it is only feeble-mindedness. Take my advice, Stuyvesant:Askher! The other course is so spineless."
"You don't know what I'd lose!"
"You wouldn't lose it!"
"I wouldn't?" he repeated. "Excuse me, Annette, but really you don't know what you're talking about. I do. I know too well." His voice had become bitter. She looked at him and saw that in the year past he had changed greatly.
"And now about you?" he said in a changed way. "Are you still set on this working business? I hope you aren't. I honestly want to help. It worries me like thunder!"
"You're a dear!" responded Annette, "and that is quite a tale. Can't we sit on this wall? Whose is it? ... The Maddens own all this? Heavens!"
She perched on the wall and he lit a cigarette. "No, not now," she answered as he held out the case. "The small Saint Cecilia doesn't, does she? Well, she couldn't. She might revert to the cob pipe." It was a flash of the old Annette. Stuyvesant looked unpleasant.
"My tale—" said Annette. "You know mamma is a worshipper of the long-haired. Any one who can createanything—futurist painters, pianists, the inventor of a new cocktail. You know her, Stuyv."
"Yes," admitted Stuyvesant.
"Well, what with their bleeding and papa's insane investments, he never provided properly for us, Stuyv. Mamma used to go to him and really cry! It was pathetic! And all he would say was that he had no money."
"He hadn't," answered Annette's cousin.
"I'd expect you to sympathise," she said. "You men always do, but that isn't my story. When he died his affairs were in such fearful shape that mamma and I were terribly pinched. She never liked you, Stuyv, or she might have asked your advice. As it was, she invested in lovely nut groves in southern California. The promoters quite misrepresented them; they didn't pay at all or declare dividends or whatever they do. In fact they assessed the owners of the common stock for irrigation or something like that. I don't just understand business. About that time I met Dicky Fanshawe, who doesn't do anything original—only works—fearfully poor. I fell in love with him, but mamma saw me as the mistress of some gilt and pink salon, with a long-haired genius as a husband, and was simply devilish about Dicky. You know her, Stuyv."
"Yes," answered Stuyvesant. "I do."
"Then you know the Altshine failure took us in too."
"Yes," he answered. "I know. Why were you so stiff-necked about my help, Annette? I have enough to help you all you need, and I want to. You know it."
"Mamma has never liked you," said Annette, "but when the crash came, well, she was willing to live on you. For the same reason I was not. I know you disapprove of me. My ideals are not many, but under the circumstances——!"
"You make me feel an awful dub!" said Stuyvesant. "I haven't any right to disapprove of you or be lofty."
"But you do. Well, mamma saw me retrieving the family fortune in some romantic and bohemian manner. I was to create something, a book, or be a decorator for the smart, a reader of East Indian poems. She had splendid ideas, but the fact is, I've found, you have to have a hint of something inside to do anything successfully outside. I hadn't it.
"I descended to a social secretary and chaperoning that horrid woman's nasty little white pups, and from that mamma has consented to my marrying Dicky. He only has ten thousand a year, and I'm going to marry him on that! I love him terribly! Isn't it splendidly romantic?"
"Um," grunted Stuyvesant. "Annette," he said, "I want you to let me provide for your mother. You will? ... No, don't thank me. It irritates me. Oh, please!" After his last plea she stopped her effusive thanks and pressed his arm. Suddenly she laughed.
"What are you laughing at?" asked Stuyvesant.
"Cecilia advocated pink for the poor," Annette explained, "and I never understood how they felt until my terrible employer asked me not to wear frills. She said they weren't suitable for my position! It's all so relative, isn't it? Cecilia saw the panorama. I saw only my corner."
Annette slipped from the wall. "Must go," she said. "Dicky's coming out at eight. You want me to be happy?"
"Of course," said Stuyvesant. Annette's face changed. "Stuyv," she said, "it's everything when you find the one who fits your heart and mind....Askher. Please, Stuyv. I can't believe she doesn't care."
"You're awfully good," he answered huskily. "Lord, Annette! If you were right——!"
Annette stepped near him. For the first time since the nursery days she kissed him. "Stay here," she ordered, "and think it out. Bye!" With a wave she left. At the first turn in the road she looked back. Her cousin was still sitting on the wall, and he was staring intently at the cigarette between his fingers. Annette had seen that it had gone out before she started.
"Poor boy!" she said. "Poor boy!" and then she thought of Dicky, who had turned her hard little heart softer to all the world. She forgot the "poor boy" who sat alone on the wall. She forgot money and things, the two which had mattered most to her, and once had been her life. With a new look on her face, she dreamed of a future—a future at which she once would have laughed.
Hers was the spirit that puts glory into the face of the tired mother in the overcrowded flat; beauty into the face of the tawdry little girl who sits on a park bench with her "gentleman friend"; youth into age, waiting for soft and endless night; a little touch of God, a hint of something larger, veiled for eyes too young; the proof intangible, sublime.
The heat of June in the city drew forth a hot, damp steam. It made white faces and brought to mind sunstrokes, not June's country thought—roses.
"Gee, it's hot!" said John. He sat opposite Stuyvesant Twombly in a restaurant famed for its coolness. "Come out with me to-night!" he added. "Dad and Celie will be glad to have you, too. Come on! Awful nice and cool out there."
Stuyvesant answered absently, and smiled a little as he did. The idea of "Celie's" being glad to see him amused, even while it hurt, him desperately. He thought with a cankered humour of his trying to find out whether there was a spark of hope for him, after the talk with Annette had made his dreams too daring, and had made him need, all over again, proof of how little he mattered. He had gotten the proof. His first talk had been full of Marjory,—Marjory,—Marjory. He had not wanted to talk of Marjory. Again he had hated her for coming between them.
Cecilia had told of what Marjory's letters had held,—how dear Marjory was (Cecilia had been a bit breathless at this point)—how she, Cecilia, loved her,—where Marjory was,—where she was going. It had been a very surface talk, not once touching anything personal, at least no more than the small Cecilia's great love for her friend. Then John had appeared and Cecilia had excused herself with much relief and gone quickly away.
It was as always, her avoidance, and what in a less sweet nature would have shown as marked distaste. Stuyvesant had understood, and held on to his small privilege doggedly.
"Then I'll leave," Stuyvesant heard John say; he didn't know what had come before, "but I'll get home from school often and see you."
"I'm going away myself for a while," said Stuyvesant,—"I don't know just where. I'm tired of business,—everything. I guess I need a change." He thought miserably of the "change" he needed, and then shut his heart on her sweet image. He made up his mind to stop thinking of "that kind of thing," and his heart laughed at his decision.
CECILIA STOPPED AND GASPED. IT WAS HARDER THAN SHE HAD DREAMEDCECILIA STOPPED AND GASPED. IT WAS HARDERTHAN SHE HAD DREAMED
"Stuyv!" said John aghast, "what am I going to do without you? Why, Stuyv! You can't go, at least for long. You don't mean a long trip?"
"'Fraid so," he was answered. "I guess I'd better, John. I—the fact is I've wanted something I can't have. I don't want to baby about it, only I'm,—well, I can't forget it here. I'm going to try a change. Damn it! What did I say that for? I hate to whine."
"Stuyv!" said John. He reached across the table, and squeezed the hand that was drawing designs on the tablecloth with a strawberry fork.
Stuyvesant felt the sympathy, and looked up. The boy on the other side of the table gasped.
"Is it as bad as that?" he asked. Stuyvesant shook his head, and then he uttered his own word and convincingly. "Gosh, John," he said, "it's the limit. I'd never have believed it possible."
"Would it help to tell?" asked John. Stuyvesant smiled a little. "Not exactly," he replied. "I did tell one person," he continued after a pause, "and after that it was worse. This person meant well too. Rot it, if I couldn't run a world better than it's run! I'd have people that love each——" he stopped, and looked wildly around. Then he mopped his forehead. "It's awful hot," he finished inanely.
"Yes," agreed John. "Lord, I'll miss you!" John was utterly despondent. "There's no one like you, Stuyv," he said in an embarrassed way. "You know how hard it is to say some things, but you can bet I know what you've done for me! I do—so does Cecilia. I had the wrong idea."
"I've been glad to be your friend," answered Stuyvesant. "You'll write me and tell me how,—how you all are?"
"Certainly," responded John. "Why, of course I will, but I don't know how I can say good-bye! Stuyv, I depend on you awfully. You know,—you know with dad, that is, I can't take his advice because I don't respect him."
"Why not?" broke in John's companion. "I'd like to know why not?"
John's mouth flew open. "His grammar——" he began.
"Trimmings," said K. Stuyvesant.
"Crudeness," said John.
"Companion of strength," said K. Stuyvesant.
"Mentioning money all the time," said John, "how much things cost."
"Better than spending it without mention on dubious objects." John looked away as Stuyvesant replied. "Look here," continued Stuyvesant, "you and I both know the honest goodness in your father—his rugged ideas of a decent life—his respect of them. The other things are tinsel balls on the Christmas tree. Desirable trimmings, but not essential for the tree's strength. A few more years will convince you,—absolutely convince you. Some day you won't even wince when your father forgets and uses his knife to eat from."
"Never," stated John.
"You prefer a man who is slippery both inside and out?" questioned Stuyvesant.
"They get along better with the world," said John.
"Oh, no," said Stuyvesant. "They get along better with the empties. A few people, those that count, look for something on the inside."
John suddenly leaned well across the table. "Look here, Stuyv," he said, "is this a bluff? Damned if I understand you! I was lying in the hammock on the porch last summer when Marjory and Cecilia came from the courts. They didn't see me, and I thought I'd hear about some beau and have a joke. I heard Marjory say that you said the old man should be kept in the garage. Not just those words, but smooth—Marjory's way. I never saw Celie so mad! She turned white as——"
"Did she say that?" shouted Stuyvesant.
"Lord, Stuyv!" said John, "everybody's lookin' at you. Yes, of course she said that. What's the matter with you?"
"What else did she say?" asked Stuyvesant. He was somewhat breathless, but for the sake of John more restrained.
"Well, Marjory told Cecilia what a hell of a case you had on her, talking about her eyes, and all that kind of stuff. Trust girls—they blab everything. Gimme the salt, will you?"
Stuyvesant shoved his glass of water toward John. "The salt, man!" said John, and then as he surveyed Stuyvesant with sad eyes, he added, "I hope it isn't catching."
"You go telephone her that we're coming out," said Stuyvesant.
"Who?"
"Your sister, of course. Tell her not to have any one else there. I've got to see her, John,—got to! Honestly, John, I'vegotto. I've got to see her a little while alone. I really must."
"I think you've made it plain," replied John. "You say you must see Cecilia. You did mention that, didn't you?"
There was no room for anything but heaven in Stuyvesant. He nodded seriously. "Yes," lie answered, "I must! Really, I've got to, John!"
John howled. "The heat!" he explained, then he sobered.
"Look here, Stuyv," he said, "didyou say that?"
"What?" asked Stuyvesant, then he remembered, and for the first and last time made a certain utterance. "She lied," he said quietly, and then, "Oh, mygosh, I'm happy! I believe I'm going crazy."
"Oh, no!" replied John, "impossible."
"Yes, John?" said Cecilia.
"Stuyv's coming out with me," she heard him say.
"Yes, dear," she answered.
"Any one coming to dinner?"
"No, dear. Shall I ask one of the Welsh twins? They're always so sweet about coming."
"No," said John; "Stuyv and I were talking about dad, rather Marjory, and he's got a hunch that he's got to see you alone. Got to,—got to,—got to!" Cecilia did not understand, and was rather bewildered at John's laughter.
"Certainly he shall, John," she replied. Her heart beat in her voice. "Good-bye, dear," she ended, and heard the click of his receiver.
"Talking of Marjory" ... Cecilia turned away from the telephone and went to stand by the sea window of her room. She would help them both all she could. All she could.... She closed her eyes, for she felt sick and faint.
"How can I help him?" she questioned, for Marjory's letters had not held a mention of him, although Cecilia's had tactfully recorded his every move. She looked out on the world—it was grey like the frothing Sound.
"I will help them to be happy," she whispered unsteadily. "Father McGowan-dear,—I am learning. Some day I will learn to think of it, and smile——" Then she turned to dress.
Norah came in, and looked on happily. Cecilia was not vain after all. No, she didn't care which frock she put on, and she told Josephine not to fuss so over her hair, that it bored her. "What is the difference?" she had asked a little bitterly, and then to Norah she had said, "I didn't mean that! I didn't! What made me say it? I am not bitter, am I, Norah?"
"And why should you be," Norah had answered, "with everything in the world that money can buy?"
At five K. Stuyvesant and John started for the Sound house. The sun beat down cruelly with the same murky, hot-damp feel. The car wove between the traffic of the crowded streets like a huge shuttle. Both men in it were silent—Stuyvesant breathless and afraid to trust his hope, yet hoping; John despondent over Stuyv's going away. All that that gentleman had done came to John with a new force,—came when the possibility of losing Stuyv even for a few months was thrust before him.
Stuyvesant spoke:
"Takes so long to get out to-day," he said; "we seem to crawl. Look at that fellow ahead. Won't let us get past; have to crawl! Lord! Say, John, let me drive."
"I will not!" replied John with decision. "I have a distinct fondness for life. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," answered Stuyvesant loudly, "nothing at all!" Then he began to speak of certain affairs downtown, talking quickly, as if afraid of silence. John looked at him with wonder. It was very unlike Stuyvesant to be hectic. He recalled the mentioned disappointment. That, also, brought wonder. Stuyvesant didn't seem to care for girls. In business he seemed to get what he wanted. What could it be? Suddenly an idea, which seemed to John almost insane, flew across his mind.
He couldn't recognise it in the face of Cecilia's and Stuyvesant's open avoidance of each other, but in spite of that, the idea clung. "Got to see her, got to——" echoed in John's ears. He swallowed convulsively. If it were true! And it was not Marjory after all,—well, wouldn't he be the happiest fellow on earth? Well, rather!
The last months had brought John to a state of adoration of Cecilia and Stuyvesant. More than love it was. To be as sure of Stuyv's always closeness,—to have Cecilia so cared for.... "Can't you let her out a little?" he heard Stuyvesant say impatiently. John answered with a gentleness absolutely new, but it was not noticed. He ran the car faster and well, and his best efforts were greeted with: "This thing seems to crawl to-night. Darned if I don't want to get out and push!"
"You're in a hurry!" said John bravely.
"Oh, no, no!" answered Stuyvesant, looking on John suspiciously. Then he mopped his forehead, leaving it streaked with the dust that came off. "Hot," he said.
They rounded the last hill before the Madden gateway, and through a gap in some stately poplars they caught a glimpse of a white speck on an upper terrace.
"Cecilia!" blurted out Stuyvesant. "Oh, gosh! John, is my tie, that is, do I look——"
"Sure, you do," said John, comfortingly. Stuyvesant mopped some more. His face looked like a futurist painting of "The Dancers" or some one's aunt.
They rounded up the hill slowly. Evangeline bounded from the shrubbery and barked welcome.
"Evangeline," said Stuyvesant, as one in a trance.
"Yes," answered John; "Norah named him for Cecilia. Norah is an old family servant." Had Stuyvesant heard, he might have smiled, but Stuyvesant was past hearing.
"You poor boys!" said Cecilia. "How hot and tired you must be!" Then she looked at Stuyvesant and laughed. "I judge it was dusty?" she said.
"No, that is, I mean quite so," stuttered Stuyvesant. He stood before her silent, openly staring.
When John saw Cecilia flush he put his hand on Stuyvesant's arm. "Come on," he said. "We'll go brush up."
John's manner was as gentle as Cecilia's. Stuyvesant followed him. On the broad porch he paused and looked back.
Evangeline was telling Cecilia that he loved her, in dog fashion—wag code.
Cecilia patted him.
"Gosh!" said Stuyvesant, and then he mopped his forehead, making another picture in the dust.
Dusk came before dinner time. It crept down stealthily, like the thief it is of day. Shadows darkened and lengthened. Greens grew black. Cecilia in the half light on a wide porch watched a certain big and unusually gruff man. Something, she could see, was making him like a wistful boy—a boy so heart-set on his want that he fears the risk of refusal.
Cecilia thought of Marjory across the seas. There was a chance to play traitor—a chance to rekindle the little spark she had once fired in Stuyvesant. The idea danced about her soul and burnt its edges.
"Father McGowan-dear," she appealed inside, "please help me! I am trying, but Iamso little!" A breeze from the Sound came with a swish and moaned gently in and out among the loving arms of trees.
The lights in the dining room were soft. They shone gently down on a large bowl of pink roses which were in the centre of the table. Their hearts were a deeper colour and they nodded and seemed to talk when the steps of two pompous persons who passed things shook them.
Stuyvesant looked at Cecilia and then quickly away. He did not know what kind of a frock she wore except that it was white. He knew that she looked good, gentle and pure; that her eyes held the depths that hurts bring and the deep loyalty of love. There was a little droop to her lips that made him ache to see. He wondered at it, dared to hope that it had come because of him, and then he put the thought away. Unbelievably sweet it seemed.
And Cecilia?
"Marjory across the seas," she thought, "to subdue Jeremiah just a little——" She closed her eyes. "Oh dear!" she thought, "whatisthe matter with me? These awful thoughts!" She opened them again and saw Jeremiah leaning on the table. His fists were closed about his knife and fork, and he held them upright, the handle ends resting on the cloth. John, curiously enough, did not seem bothered by this. He was watching Stuyvesant, who sat opposite.